You Only Die Twice

Chapter FIVE





Before she died the first time, some nine years ago when she was a junior at the University of Maine studying English, Cheryl Dunning was another person.

She saw the world through different eyes. She’d had her share of ups and downs like anyone else, but certainly nothing life shattering. Nothing that would make her question the world and redefine who she was, which is what did happen to her.

Until the day her life ended, she was like many of her friends―reasonably happy. And sometimes, when she wrote something she liked, read something she loved or met a boy she thought was cute, she was unreasonably unhappy.

Instead of having one friend, as she now had in Patty, Cheryl had many friends. She was popular. She was considered pretty. Some in the English program admired her writing. They said she had skill and talent. “One day, I can see you writing novels,” a few of her more secure fellow writing students would say. “You’ve got a way with dialogue.” Her writing teachers agreed.

And Cheryl Dunning saw a future for herself.

It was at her friend Diane’s dinner party, which consisted of Domino’s pizza, red wine and beer spread out on a table lit with stubby green candles, that she met Mark Rand.

He seemed nice. He was tall, black hair, blue eyes―her type, right down to the cleft in his chin. He played baseball, which would have turned her off if he didn’t come off so well. Like her, he was a reader. Like her, Fitzgerald was his favorite author. Like her, he thought that Kerouac was full of shit and overrated. They disagreed when it came to “Ulysses,” which he admired but which she thought was over-written tripe, but that he had his own point of view just made him more interesting to her.

Before he raped her and cut her throat and left her to die behind Diane’s apartment complex, where a neighbor heard their struggle and was smart enough to question it, she found herself enjoying his company and his charm.

She flirted with him. He flirted with her. They stole a kiss outside Diane’s bathroom. He pressed close to her and she could feel him against her leg. She wasn’t about to have sex with him, but making out was an option. When they left the party an hour later, each was a little drunk on beer and more than a little high on their mutual attraction.

“I want to f*ck you,” he said when they stepped outside.

He said it so directly, it made her laugh.

“Kidding,” he said.

“You’re hilarious.”

“But I do find you attractive.”

She smiled.

“And I’d love it if you gave me a blow job.”

She didn’t answer because she wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or his attempt at humor. She just went with it and pretended she didn’t hear him. Boys and their blow jobs. She liked him, but she had strict rules when it came to sleeping with someone, and she never broke them. They’d make out. That’s as far as it would go. If they decided they’d like to see each other again, they’d take it from there.

Maybe after the fifth date, if there is one.

Diane’s apartment house was on a quiet street that backed up against woods. It was the beginning of autumn and it still was reasonably warm. It was dark, so they went just inside the woods and found a tall pine tree to lean against.

At first, he was gentle. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on the mouth. He whispered in her ear, told her how beautiful she was, and she began to enjoy herself. It was awhile before he put his tongue in her mouth, but the way he did it was so sexy, she decided she didn’t mind and leaned into it, kissing him back hard.

It was a mistake.

His hand dropped between her legs and he started to feel her. She nudged his hand aside and said in his ear, “Just this. This is nice. Just this. OK?”

“What about this?” He took her hand and placed it on his erection. “What about that? You can’t ignore it now. You made that happen.” She could smell the wine on his breath. It hadn’t bothered her before, but now it smelled rotten, probably because of the edge in his voice.

“Mark,” she said. “Come on. We’re just getting to know―”

She could recall the first blow that struck the side of her head, but when the second came, there was nothing but blackness. In retrospect, she liked to think that her body protected her from remembering the violence of what happened next.

Three days later, in her private room at Eastern Maine Medical Center, she woke from her coma. Two days later, she was told that she had died from a severe loss of blood. Her doctor said that she had been raped, her throat cut. The police wanted to talk to her, but the doctor held them off for another day so she could continue to regain her strength.

When they did come, they let her know that Mark Rand was in jail and that the judge had refused bail. Because she was ruled dead for those two minutes before they were able to revive her, Rand was being held for second-degree murder, rape, and a host of other charges.

When she left the hospital, she dropped out of school and went to live with her parents.

Six weeks later, she learned she was pregnant with his child.

An abortion was scheduled for the following week. But it didn’t happen. Whether it was because her body had been through so much physical abuse and was still healing, or because news of the pregnancy had caused her great emotional stress, Cheryl Dunning miscarried in the shower.

When she began to hemorrhage, she was taken to the hospital again, where she remained for four additional days before leaving the place a harder, wiser, different person.